


Your Very Own-Brand Demon

by etcetera_nine



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: British supermarket hierarchy, First Time, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, What Have I Done, a little crack-y but also sweet, hopefully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 00:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19306795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etcetera_nine/pseuds/etcetera_nine
Summary: There was a bottle in his hand. That was fine, he supposed, except it was a bit larger than he was expecting. He didn’t think they’d need that much.Below him, Crowley had gone still, tensing up. “What—”Aziraphale took a closer look at the bottle. It had little drawings of olives on it.Oh dear, he thought sadly.





	Your Very Own-Brand Demon

He kissed Crowley as they were leaving the Ritz, in front of the coat check.

It was a nice kiss, and it turned into a long kiss, and then it got even nicer, and they were struggling with each other against the wall when—

“Don’t mind me,” said the coat check girl, not looking up from her phone. “I’ll just sit here, shall I, while you eat each other’s faces in front of me. That’s fine.”

“Terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said, turning vaguely purple with embarrassment. “It’s just that we have a lot of history, and we were just—”

“Leaving,” said Crowley, tugging him away from the wall and toward the exit. “Goodbye. Your place or mine, angel?”

“Yours is closer,” Aziraphale managed to squeak out, following him through the door and out onto the street, and the two of them hurried quickly to Crowley’s flat, stopping only when absolutely necessary for an appropriate amount of face eating.

Crowley’s flat was sparse and cold, but his bed was big, and eventually even warm, after they’d rolled around in it for several minutes, pulling off various socks and bow ties and sunglasses and stupid snakeskin belt buckles.

And then they were both naked, and gasping, and Crowley was stretched out below him, moving his hips sinuously, and Aziraphale moaned and said, “Do you have any… any…”

His mouth wasn’t working quite right, probably because there were too many moans in it currently, so he just grabbed Crowley’s arse and squeezed it, hoping he’d get the idea.

“Can’t you just—” Crowley did something here with his hips that should be _illegal_ , Aziraphale decided. “—miracle some up?”

“I… What? No! How on Earth would I explain _that_ on the paperwork?”

“No more paperwork,” Crowley said, twisting his mouth into something that resembled a grin. “Only the two of us now, remember?”

Oh, he remembered, Aziraphale thought, as he looked down at several millennia’s worth of his most secret fantasies, laid out before him. He remembered. “I…”

“Just try it, angel, for fuck’sss sssake—”

“Your voice is really much sexier than it has any right to be,” said Aziraphale primly, and turned his hand.

He had been going for oil. Any oil, really. Maybe lightly scented with jasmine or bergamot. What he got was something the color and consistency of wallpaper paste. It was sticky. It had lumps in.

“Nope,” said Crowley, the “p” in the word making a popping noise as he looked at Aziraphale’s hand in mild terror. “No fucking way, nuh-uh—”

“I was _distracted_ —”

“Absolutely not. I thought you’d said you’d done this before, angel?”

“I _have_ ,” Aziraphale said, annoyed. “But there was slightly more preparation involved.”

“You’ve had sssix thousssand _yearsss_ —”

“Oh hush, you,” Aziraphale scolded, and waved his hand and tried again, thinking: oil, oil, _oil_.

There was a bottle in his hand. That was fine, he supposed, except it was a bit larger than he was expecting. He didn’t think they’d need _that_ much.

Below him, Crowley had gone still, tensing up. “ _What—_ ”

Aziraphale took a closer look at the bottle. It had little drawings of olives on it.

Oh dear, he thought sadly.

“Were you planning on making a _salad_?”

“You were _distracting me_ ,” Aziraphale cried out, distraught.

Crowley hissed with laughter below him, his head thrown back on the pillows, his golden eyes squeezed shut. Then one flickered open, looking at the bottle again. “And it’s Tesco’s own brand! Angel, really, I wouldn’t think I rated Waitrose olive oil, but I’m worth at least Sainsbury’s, surely?”

“Oh, don’t—” he sputtered. “If you just give me a second, I’ll—”

“If you try again and come up with toasted sesame oil from Asda, I swear I’m kicking you out of my flat, I don’t care _how_ bloody gorgeous you are without your ridiculous clothes on.”

“ _My_ ridiculous clothes?” Aziraphale thought of the snakeskin boots that he had tugged off and thrown over his shoulder just minutes ago, nearly taking out a lamp. “ _My_ —”

Crowley was smiling at him, his arms folded behind his head, looking very pleased with himself.

Aziraphale sighed. He reached over and set the bottle down on Crowley’s nightstand. “I’m sorry. It’s just that… I’ve wanted this for an awfully long time, and…” He looked at Crowley, stretched out on the bed, terrible and wonderful, grinning his sarcastic grin, his beautiful eyes crinkling at the corners. “And my dear, you are so _very_ lovely, and you make it _very_ difficult to concentrate.”

Something flickered in Crowley’s eyes. “Oh, angel,” he breathed, and tugged him closer and kissed him soundly, for a long time.

When they broke apart, Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s hand to his face and kissed his fingertips, his palm, the blue veins on his wrist that he didn’t really need but had anyway, because to Crowley, aesthetics were very important.

“Angel,” Crowley said again, but it had been a while since either of them had spoken, and his voice was rough. He nodded towards the nightstand. “Top drawer, please.”

One more kiss to his palm and Aziraphale reached over, sliding the drawer open and rooting around in it to pull out a small bottle. He blinked at it, then looked at Crowley. “What is this?”

“We’re a little past oil now, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, grinning his snake grin. “Welcome to the 21st century.”

Aziraphale ignored the jibe. It had, after all, been more than a century since he’d slept with anyone, give or take a few decades. “Where did you get this?” Aziraphale frowned at the bottle, reading the label. Hmm.

“There are other stores in Soho, you know. Some of them actually sell things to you when you go inside them.”

Aziraphale made an indelicate snort of derision, squeezing some of the bottle’s contents on his fingers. Yes, he thought, this would do nicely. And not nearly as drippy, as a bonus. “Happy?” he asked, holding up his fingers.

“You have no idea,” Crowley said, his voice turning up into an interesting growl at the end, and he tugged Aziraphale closer again.

“I very much think I do, actually,” Aziraphale replied, kissing a very sensitive spot he had discovered earlier, right underneath Crowley’s jaw. “I—” He stopped. “Wait. Have you had this…” he said, nodding toward the bottle, where it lay discarded in the nest of blankets they had made on Crowley’s bed. “Was that in your nightstand this whole time?”

Crowley’s mouth twisted. “You know I don’t like lying to you.”

Aziraphale sat back on his heels. “You foul... you— You serpent! You _knew_ I’d get flustered, you did all of that on _purpose_ and—”

And Crowley wrapped his arms around his back and pulled him back down again, laughing, Aziraphale still gasping out protests that eventually turned into a different type of gasp entirely.

“You absolute fiend,” he whispered, pushing Crowley’s hair off his forehead with the hand that wasn’t currently occupied. “My wily adversary. I hate you so.”

“You _love_ me,” Crowley teased, offering his mouth for another sinful, perfect kiss.

More than all of the bottles of olive oil in Waitrose, Aziraphale thought. And Fortnum & Mason. And the food halls at Harrods. More than all of the armies of heaven and hell, more than all of the blades of grass in the Garden, more than all of the stars in this world and the world to come, he thought, and said, “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I *really* hope no one is offended by this, as I have thoroughly enjoyed every GO fic I've ever read, but I couldn't resist. 
> 
> Also, despite Trying Very Hard, I am not Actually British, so please forgive any inaccuracies.


End file.
